I fancy myself a person capable of evocative depiction. My friends, I am several hundred words into this and am committed to wrapping this review up by 1,500… but as I type, I am deeply afraid that neither language nor explanation will fully convey to you the impossible terribleness of this oven-roasted abomination. I did not know pizza could actually offend. Over the course of my previous 52 years of lived experience, I had come to believe that pizza and its cousin - the flatbread – by virtue of their simplicity - could only fall within a narrow band on the Enjoyment Scale spanning from the midpoint to the high end: from Okay to Wonderful. It tastes like the chef is angry at food - as if they had dated briefly once long before you came along even though food has moved on, the chef still harbors some active malice which you are now caught up in. It is a symphony of screaming cats trying to claw out your tastebuds so they can bat them about the high-wear industrial carpet. None pleasing individually or in combination. It is as if the chef has carefully stuffed each of the ingredients into an oversized cartoon boxing glove and punched you in the face. The flavor profile of the Panera Chipotle Chicken & Bacon Flatbread arrives on a diner’s palate with a concussing ferocity. I will say this: it makes an immediate impression. I couldn’t even put my tray table up because on it was The Panera Chipotle Chicken & Bacon Flatbread. A mountain that hates you and wishes you harm. It was a deviation akin to your plane to LaGuardia forgoing final descent in favor of instead crashing into the side of a mountain.
It was what I can only describe politely as… an immeasurable departure from expectations. Gave the flatbread a couple minutes to cool off. And then it went off and there it was: my Panera Chipotle Chicken & Bacon Flatbread! At last, we sup!įound a table. Then I placed my order got my drink and awaited the buzzzzzzzzz of my little Panera pager. I shall eat that! And I shall enjoy a charged strawberry lemonade as an accompaniment!” In that state, my mind clouded, I thought “Why, yes. And worse, I, being very hungry, was not a person capable of great discernment at that moment. I had no idea what I was walking into.Įven a person of great discernment could be waylaid by the item allegedly captured in that photo. Their aromas can lure us headlong into the rocks. Things can appear tasty beyond their measure. When really hungry, we are weak to manipulations of sight and smell. Thus left no choice but to scan the self-service kiosk menu for an alternative, I was vulnerable to a great and terrible deceit. The chain whose name is a brand-y vaguely European-sounding bastardization of the Spanish and Italian words for bread - pan and pane respectively - was out of bread. Perhaps the chicken one which they inscrutably overname as the Roasted Tuscan Medley or some shit.
Pressed for time, I made what I now know was akin to steering my Streetcar of Desire onto the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. With a busy morning behind me and a busier afternoon ahead, I found myself pulling up at the vexing intersection of great hunger and Panera Boulevard. It wasn’t bad as lilliputian baked goods go it was simply very small and had been eaten long prior. That had been breakfast six hours earlier. Imagine a pastry the size of a bar of soap and only half as high. I had eaten nothing more than a miniature slightly stale hotel buffet apple turnover sufficient in size to satisfy a human weighing no more than eleven or twelve pounds.
It is something so opposite it is as if it was conceived as a punishment for our sins.īefore going farther, as context, I should inform you of the conditions under which I encountered the subject of this review: The Panera Chipotle Chicken & Bacon Flatbread is not one of those dishes.
Those kinds of dishes are so special, they transcend the very concept of taste and remind us that God loves us and wants us to be happy (unless we are atheistic or agnostic, in which case, they just remind us that food can be fucking amazing with or without divine intervention.) A dish can be so special, it feels almost spiritual.
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